The other day, Lovah (herein begins his new name) and I were enjoying a sandwich and salad, respectively, when I opened a wrapped square of carrot cake we were to share for dessert. Not two bites in did I notice a glare from across the picnic table. "What?" I asked, thinking I had baby vomit in my hair or spinach in my teeth. "Halfsies!" he yelled. Whoa, someone had declared carrot cake war.
Now it's a running joke—in addition to the one where I boast being a great sharer when countless times I've stabbed hands reaching for my plate—where one of us screws up our nose and sing-songs, "Half-siiieeeess!" in the other person's face. Adults, we are.
With the aforementioned cake, for example, I like to take my time, starting from top to bottom, making sure to get equal parts icing and cake. Maybe pausing for a sip of coffee between bites. (I've been told I'm a ceremonial eater. Compliment? I'll take it.) When another spoon swoops in and steals too much of either part, throwing off the balance and sending my neat tower toppling over, I turn into a screaming toddler in a sandbox whose toy has just been taken. Oh no you di-aannnt.